


Coins

by Inell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Erotica, M/M, Slash, The Quidditch Pitch: The Changing Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-30
Updated: 2006-07-30
Packaged: 2018-10-26 16:45:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10790622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inell/pseuds/Inell
Summary: Coins make a certain jingling sound whenever they are tossed onto the top of a wooden bureau.





	Coins

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes:

warning: rentboy

For [](http://anael.livejournal.com/profile)[**anael**](http://anael.livejournal.com/) based on [this](http://www.livejournal.com/users/inell/435243.html?thread=5586987#t5586987) image request. Happy holidays, hon! Edited: 7/18/06  
 

* * *

Coins make a certain jingling sound whenever they are tossed onto the top of a wooden bureau.

He knows this sound well after the last two years. A handjob is a softer jangle of coins when they land. His hands aren’t worth as much as other things. A blowjob brings a heavier thud when the coins land, sometimes it’s a wisp of paper against the top of the bureau. If they want his cock, that'll be a clinking of coins and the scraping of paper against wood. His arse is a shuffle of paper money followed by coins. It’s worth more than anything else unless he lets them hurt him.

He only allows that near the end of the month, when his rent is due and he realizes he’s spent too much on food and has to make up the money somehow. Only then does he allow them to tie him up, to whip his back until he bleeds, to have his arse until it’s sore and raw. They pay well for the privilege and he can always pay his rent, even if he has trouble walking for a few days after and can’t do more than a wank or blow until his arse heals.

He prefers a wank and blow to anything even if his jaw gets sore and they sometimes like to choke him. It costs extra to swallow and he hates drinking come from filthy men so he rarely mentions it unless they do. It also costs extra if they come on his face. A lot of them pay extra. They seem to like watching their come splash on his pretty face, watch it drip from his sharp cheekbones, watch it cling to his full lips. He has his father to thank for the face that earns him enough money to survive in this place; the only thing his father ever gave him that was worth anything.

None of them think anything of the disgust in his eyes when he looks at them, never realize he had come so very close to becoming their potential torturer. He isn’t a murderer, though; the only thing he seems to have inherited from his mum save for her pale skin and possibly her nose. He thinks about killing them when they’re fucking him, wonders what it would have been like if he’d fulfilled his assignment and simply killed the old man. He hates being a runner, hates that everyone must consider him a pathetic, weak coward, hates that his mum gave him a handful of galleons and sent him off with nothing but his face and body to get by.

Muggle Rome, far away from England, where his pretty face and pale blond hair earn him a few extra coins. The first time it happened, he’d been shocked but the money had been so tempting that he’d knelt on the dirty ground and opened his mouth. He’d spit it out after, before he learned you could make more if you swallow, and vomited in the alley. He’d sworn he’d starve before ever doing it again. Eventually, he’d gotten hungry and gone back to where it first happened. Another man came by, offered him some coins, and he was on his knees with his eyes closed as the coins hit the ground. The second time, he used his hand and mouth to make it end sooner. He was able to eat for a couple of days before he was back.

He’d eventually made enough to move from the alley to a small flat. They came and went, leaving money, using him, letting him use them, and he never gave them more than they paid for. The shame, the disgust, the hate, it just fueled his resignation to never let go and to never give away his control. There had been a few times when he’d been fucked, beaten, and no coins were left. He learned about those men, though, and they leave him alone now that word has gotten out he'll cut anyone who hurts him and that he isn't afraid of killing them.

It’s a job. He doesn’t kiss, he doesn’t talk, he doesn’t give them a name. He sucks, he strokes, he lets them fuck, and he makes enough money to survive. The first time he was fucked, the only way he could get aroused was by closing his eyes and thinking of someone else. It’s second nature, now, to think of _him_ while he’s fucking or being fucked. Wouldn’t Potter just die to find out Draco has been fucked by him hundreds of times now?

He’s alone in his bed now. Coins fall onto the bureau, the door closes, and only then does he roll out of bed. It stinks of sex and sweat and his arse is sore. It’s nearly rent time again and he’s had two at once, brothers who wanted to share. His jaw aches and no amount of toothpaste can get the taste of come off his tongue. He looks in the mirror and no longer recognizes himself. A quick movement and his fist collides with the glass. Better, he thinks as he looks at the pieces of broken glass, ignoring the fact that he’s bleeding as he stares at the jagged pieces.

The war isn’t over yet. He’s not heard from his mum or Snape since he was sent away years ago. He knows they must be dead. He thinks of his mum, his beautiful mum, broken and dead at Voldemort’s feet, probably tortured and raped for helping him escape. He thinks of Snape, the man who was more of a father to him than Lucius had ever been, tortured and eviscerated for daring to defy Voldemort. He thinks about Potter, about Potter’s little cronies, and he wonders if they’ll win or if they’ve already been defeated. He has no contact with the Wizarding world here in this world he’s made for himself. Dark alleys, smoky clubs, word of mouth bring him clients that are trustworthy. He lives in a nice flat with a window and hasn’t touched a wand since Dumbledore died.

Draco refuses to acknowledge the tears he sees as he stares at the broken mirror. Malfoys don’t cry. He’s strong. He’s surviving the best way he can. He can ignore the shame of being nothing more than a whore, can ignore the pain of having his mouth and arse used by men whose faces blur one into the other, can ignore the fact he’s not spoken beyond listing prices and positions for months. If he ignores it, perhaps it can all just be a bad dream and he’ll wake in the Slytherin dorms with Vince snoring and Greg whining as he wanks beneath the covers.

He takes a shower, watching the blood wash away, turning the water on hot enough to scald to get rid of the come from the two this afternoon. They pay well but his body is sore and he is so very tired. He closes his eyes and leans against the wall of the shower, knowing that he’ll never truly be clean again. He dries off, glances at his torn knuckles, and puts ointment on them as well as a few swipes along his arse where it’s ripped from his earlier buggering.

He runs the towel over his blond hair as he walks back into his room to look out the window. He likes the window. It shows him a view of a world where he doesn’t belong and never will. War hasn’t come here yet, thankfully. He sees children playing and wonders if he was ever that carefree and naïve. He sees couples walking and whispering, watches the soft caresses and lingering kisses, and he aches for things he doesn’t quite understand. He sees a boy not much older than himself with shaggy black hair and glasses and hopes, wonders, sighs when the boy keeps walking and he realizes it’s not _him_.

It’s stupid to even hope. Potter never knew, never realized, never understood. Hell, Draco didn’t even really understand so how could Potter? He tells himself that happy endings are for stupid stories and ridiculous movies. This is his life, not foolish girly dreams of the hero of the war finding him and bring him home to his mum and godfather, both of whom miraculously survive the war, and said hero deciding that years of hatred and obsession were simply masking confusing feelings of lust and desire and need.

He leans forward, palm against the wall, and rubs the towel against his thigh. The ointment is helping his arse but he wishes he had a potion to heal it completely. He’s got rent due next week and doesn’t want to have to resort to dealing with the guy that scares him sometimes. He hates being tied up more than anything and the hairy man always leaves too many bruises and marks for him to work for days.

The sound of his door closing pulls him from his thoughts but he doesn’t look away from the window. He’s still sore but maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much if he’s fucked standing up. He waits until he hears footsteps before he says, “Put the money on the bureau. It’s extra if you want to come on me. You’ve got to use a condom or your cock isn’t getting anywhere near me, no exceptions.”

There is silence behind him then a throat is cleared and feet shuffle back and forth. Great. He needs rent money and he gets some bloke that’s probably straight and just wants a spot of fun to be experimental. He’ll only make enough from a blowjob if the guy doesn’t chicken out before a wank is even finished. Coins jangle as they land on the top of the bureau and he listens intently to what sounds like a lot of paper bills scraping against the wood.

“For that much, you can basically do anything you like,” he mutters as he drops his wet towel and braces his other palm against the window. “What do you want? Hands, mouth, arse? I can fuck you if you’d rather.”

The client doesn’t speak, which isn’t unusual, so Draco just closes his eyes and waits. Rough fingertips hesitantly touch his bare back, tracing some of the scars that have been made over the years. The man is breathing heavily and his touch is so light that Draco wonders if he’s imagining it. He stiffens when he feels chapped lips against his shoulderblade. The touch is too gentle, too shy, and he bites his lip as he tries to prevent his body from reacting.

“You paid for me, mate. You don’t have to do all this shite since I’m pretty much a sure thing,” Draco points out as coldly as possibly.

“You’re scared.”

The words are said in a soft whisper against his bare skin and Draco sneers as he denies them. “I don’t get scared. I’ve been at this a long time and, if you’ve not heard, I’ll cut you if you try to hurt me. I don’t tolerate that shite anymore. Got it? Now are you going to fuck me? If not, just get your money and leave.”

Draco is surprised when he is suddenly pushed against the window. The man behind him is taller than him by at least a few inches but he doesn’t feel that muscular even if he is strong. Fingers wrap around Draco’s cock and begin to move, the glass providing friction as the palm rubs up and down.

He feels a denim covered erection against his arse and wiggles back, wanting this guy to come and just go away. He doesn’t open his eyes, having no interest in seeing the man currently stroking his cock and grinding against his sore arse Cotton rubs against his back as the bloke bends him over slightly and keeps wanking him. His touch is still rather hesitant, like he’s never done this before, and Draco says, “Is this what you paid for then? You want to make me come? If so, make it more firm. Bloody fuck, mate. You’ve wanked yourself, I’m sure, so just do what you like.”

“Like this?” The voice is more confident as the hand tightens and begins to move faster, tugging and squeezing, fingers brushing against his balls and thumb pressing against the head of his cock.

There’s a smugness to the voice that strikes a memory and fits perfectly with the man Draco sees in his head. His hips begin to move as he fucks the client’s hand and he reaches back to grip the bloke’s arse to pull him against him harder. For a few brief moments, it’s not about coins on the bureau or nameless faceless clients. It’s about him and pleasure, the first time he’s ever felt it like this, and Draco’s head falls back as he comes. A wordless cry escapes his parted lips as he spills onto the floor and splashes onto the window.

He is shaking as the client grips his hips and drags him back, the man rubbing hard against his arse before he groans. Draco feels damp denim against his arse soon enough and knows the bloke came in his trousers. That’s never happened before, either. He doesn’t like this, not at all. He shoves the man away and finally opens his eyes, letting the dream end abruptly as he faces his reality.

“It’s over.”

Before Draco can say the same words, tell the client to get the rest of his money and just leave, the bloke speaks. He’s about to ask what’s over when he sees a face reflected in the glass. Shaggy hair and spectacles falling down a familiar nose. He stiffens, his body flushing with shame and anger and lust as he stares at the reflection that surely can’t be there.

“It ended last month. Took that long to find you, Malfoy.”

“Why?” One question that says so much. Why was Potter here? Why had he been sought out? Why had Potter done it? Draco refuses to look away from the reflection as he remembers hesitant touches and chapped lips before it became a flurry of movement. Passion. That’s what’s different, he realizes with surprise.

“I don’t know,” Potter admits softly. “We should---we should go now. You need away from this place and your mum will want to see you. She saved Ron, you know, and I promised her I’d bring you back to her. Right. Get your stuff together so I can take you to her.”

“My mum is alive?” Draco whispers as he closes his eyes and shudders. “I thought---I was certain she must be dead. Fuck, she saved a _Weasley_? What about Snape?”

“He’s dead,” Potter tells him bluntly. Draco flinches and sighs as he runs his fingers through his still wet hair. He’d known that, of course, but it still hurts.

“It’s really over?” he asks as he opens his eyes and turns to face Potter, suddenly feeling a sense of panic. “You won’t tell---I don’t want my mum to know about this, about what I‘ve been doing.”

Potter meets his gaze and nods once. “I won’t tell anyone, Malfoy. It’s your business, after all. Seems everyone does what they need to to survive.” He looks away and says, “About what happened here---”

“Forget it,” Draco says firmly as he leans down and picks up the wet towel. He wipes his cock off and ignores Potter as he pulls on a discarded pair of pants and then his trousers.

Draco freezes when he feels fingers trace one of his scars and closes his eyes, wondering if maybe it isn’t so bad to believe once in awhile when he hears a voice barely above a whisper say, “What if I don‘t want to forget it?”

The End  
Coins make a certain jingling sound whenever they are tossed onto the top of a wooden bureau.

He knows this sound well after the last two years. A handjob is a softer jangle of coins when they land. His hands aren’t worth as much as other things. A blowjob has a heavier thud when the coins land, sometimes it’s a wisp of paper against the top of the bureau. His cock causes a clinking of coins and the scraping of paper against wood. His arse is a shuffle of paper money followed by coins. It’s worth more than anything else unless he lets them hurt him.

He only allows that near the end of the month, when his rent is due and he realizes he’s spent too much on food during the month and has to make up the money somehow. Only then does he allow them to tie him up, to whip his back until he bleeds, to have his arse until it’s sore and raw. They pay well for the privilege and he can always pay his rent, even if he has trouble walking for a few days after and can’t do more than a wank or blow until his arse heals.

He prefers a wank and blow to anything even if his jaw gets sore and they sometimes like to choke him. It costs extra to swallow and he hates drinking come from filthy men so he rarely mentions it unless they do. It also costs extra if they come on his face. A lot of them pay extra. They seem to like watching their come splash on his pretty face, watch it drip from his sharp cheekbones, watch it cling to his full lips. He has his father to thank for the face that earns him enough money to survive in this place; the only thing his father ever gave him that was worth anything.

None of them think anything of the disgust in his eyes when he looks at them, never realize he had come so very close to becoming their potential torturer. He isn’t a murderer, though; the only thing he seems to have inherited from his mum save for her pale skin and possibly her nose. He thinks about killing them when they’re fucking him, wonders what it would have been like if he’d fulfilled his assignment and simply killed the old man. He hates being a runner, hates that everyone must consider him a pathetic, weak coward, hates that his mum gave him a handful of galleons and sent him off with nothing but his face and body to get by.

Muggle Rome, far away from England, where his pretty face and pale blond hair earn him a few extra coins. The first time it happened, he’d been shocked but the money had been so tempting that he’d knelt on the dirty ground and opened his mouth. He’d spit it out after, before he learned you could make more if you swallow, and vomited in the alley. He’d swore he’d starve before ever doing it again. Eventually, he’d gotten hungry and gone back to where it first happened. Another man came by, offered him some coins, and he was on his knees with his eyes closed as the coins hit the ground. The second time, he used his hand and mouth to make it end sooner. He was able to eat for a couple of days before he was back.

He’d eventually made enough to move from the alley to a small flat. They came and went, leaving money, using him, letting him use them, and he never gave them more than they paid for. The shame, the disgust, the hate, it just fueled his resignation to never let go and to never give away his control. There had been a few times when he’d been fucked, beaten, and no coins were left. He learned about those men, though, and they leave him alone now that word has gotten out he'll cut anyone who hurts him and isn't afraid of killing them.

It’s a job. He doesn’t kiss, he doesn’t talk, he doesn’t give them a name. He sucks, he strokes, he lets them fuck, and he makes enough money to survive. The first time he’s fucked, the only way he can get aroused is by closing his eyes and thinking of someone else. It’s second nature, now, to think of _him_ while he’s fucking or being fucked. Wouldn’t Potter just die to find out Draco has been fucked by him hundreds of times now?

He’s alone in his bed now. Coins fall onto the bureau, the door closes, and only then does he roll out of bed. It stinks of sex and sweat and his arse is sore. It’s nearly rent time again and he’s had two at once, brothers who wanted to share. His jaw aches and no amount of toothpaste can get the taste of come off his tongue. He looks in the mirror and no longer recognizes himself. A quick movement and his fist collides with the glass. Better, he thinks as he looks at the pieces of broken glass, ignoring the fact that he’s bleeding as he stares at the jagged pieces.

The war isn’t over yet. He’s not heard from his mum or Snape since he was sent away years ago. He knows they must be dead. He thinks of his mum, his beautiful mum, broken and dead at Voldemort’s feet, probably tortured and raped for helping him escape. He thinks of Snape, the man who was more of a father to him than Lucius had ever been, tortured and eviscerated for daring to defy Voldemort. He thinks about Potter, about Potter’s little cronies, and he wonders if they’ll win or if they’ve already been defeated. He has no contact with the Wizarding world here in this world he’s made for himself. Dark alleys, smoky clubs, word of mouth bring him clients that are trustworthy. He lives in a nice flat with a window and hasn’t touched a wand since Dumbledore died.

Draco refuses to acknowledge the tears he sees as he stares at the broken mirror. Malfoys don’t cry. He’s strong. He’s surviving the best way he can. He can ignore the shame of being nothing more than a whore, can ignore the pain of having his mouth and arse used by men whose faces blur one into the other, can ignore the fact he’s not spoken beyond listing prices and positions for months. If he ignores it, perhaps it can all just be a bad dream and he’ll wake in the Slytherin dorms with Vince snoring and Greg whining as he wanks beneath the covers.

He takes a shower, watching the blood wash away, turning the water on hot enough to scald to get rid of the come from the two this afternoon. They pay well but his body is sore and he is so very tired. He closes his eyes and leans against the wall of the shower, knowing that he’ll never truly be clean again. He dries off, glances at his torn knuckles, and puts ointment on them as well as a few swipes along his arse where it’s ripped from his earlier buggering.

He runs the towel over his blond hair as he walks back into his room to look out the window. He likes the window. It shows him a view of a world where he doesn’t belong and never will. War hasn’t come here yet, thankfully. He sees children playing and wonders if he was ever that carefree and naïve. He sees couples walking and whispering, watches the soft caresses and lingering kisses, and he aches for things he doesn’t quite understand. He sees a boy not much older than him with shaggy black hair and glasses and hopes, wonders, sighs when the boy keeps walking and he realizes it’s not _him_.

It’s stupid to even hope. Potter never knew, never realized, never understood. Hell, Draco didn’t even really understand so how could Potter? He tells himself that happy endings are for stupid stories and ridiculous movies. This is his life, not foolish girly dreams of the hero of the war finding him and bring him home to his mum and godfather, both of whom miraculously survive the war, and said hero decided that years of hatred and obsession were simply masking confusing feelings of lust and desire and need.

He leans forward, palm against the wall, and rubs the towel against his thigh. The ointment is helping his arse but he wishes he had a potion to heal it completely. He’s got rent due next week and doesn’t want to have to resort to dealing with the guy that scares him sometimes. He hates being tied up more than anything and the hairy man always leaves too many bruises and marks for him to work for days.

The sound of his door closing pulls him from his thoughts but he doesn’t look away from the window. He’s still sore but maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much if he’s fucked standing up. He waits until he hears footsteps before he says, “Put the money on the bureau. It’s extra if you want to come on me. You’ve got to use a condom or your cock isn’t getting anywhere near me, no exceptions.”

There is silence behind him then a throat is cleared and feet shuffle back and forth. Great. He needs rent money and he gets some bloke that’s probably straight and just wants a spot of fun to be experimental. He’ll only make enough from a blowjob if the guy doesn’t chicken out before a wank is even finished. Coins jangle as they land on the top of the bureau and he listens intently to what sounded like a lot of paper bills scrape against wood.

“For that much, you can basically do anything you like,” he mutters as he drops his wet towel and braces his other palm against the window. “What do you want? Hands, mouth, arse, I can fuck you if you’d rather.”

The client doesn’t speak, which isn’t unusual, so Draco just closes his eyes and waits. Rough fingertips hesitantly touch his bare back, tracing some of the scars that have been made over the years. The man is breathing heavily and his touch is so light that Draco wonders if he’s imagining it. He stiffens when he feels chapped lips against his shoulderblade. The touch is too gentle, too shy, and he bites his lip as he tries to prevent his body from reacting.

“You paid for me, mate. You don’t have to do all this shite since I’m pretty much a sure thing,” Draco points out as coldly as possibly.

“You’re scared.”

The words are said in a soft whisper against his bare skin and Draco sneers as he denies them. “I don’t get scared, mate. I’ve been at this a long time and, if you’ve not heard, I’ll cut you if you try to hurt me. I don’t tolerate that shite anymore. Got it? Now are you going to fuck me? If not, just get your money and leave.”

Draco is surprised when he is suddenly pushed against the window. The man behind him is taller than him by at least a few inches but he doesn’t feel that muscular even if he is strong. Fingers wrap around Draco’s cock and begin to move, the glass providing friction as the palm rubs up and down.

He feels a denim covered erection against his arse and wiggles back, wanting this guy to come and just go away. He doesn’t open his eyes, having no interest in seeing the man currently rubbing against his arse. Cotton rubs against his back as the bloke bends him over slightly and keeps wanking him. His touch is still rather hesitant, like he’s never done this before, and Draco says, “Is this what you paid for then? You want to make me come? If so, make it more firm. Bloody fuck, mate. You’ve wanked yourself, I’m sure, so just do what you like.”

“Like this?” The voice is more confident as the hand tightens and begins to move faster, tugging and squeezing, fingers brushing against his balls and thumb pressing against the head of his cock.

There’s a smugness to the voice that strikes a memory and fits perfectly with the man Draco sees in his head. His hips begin to move as he fucks the client’s hand and he reaches back to grip the bloke’s arse to pull him against him harder. For a few brief moments, it’s not about coins on the bureau or nameless faceless clients. It’s about him and pleasure, the first time he’s ever felt it like this, and Draco’s head falls back as he comes. A wordless cry escapes his parted lips as he spills onto the floor and splashes onto the window.

He is shaking as the client grips his hips and drags him back, the man rubbing hard against his arse before he groans. Draco feels wet denim against his arse soon enough and knows the bloke came in his trousers. That’s never happened before, either. He doesn’t like this, not at all. He shoves the man away and finally opens his eyes, letting the dream end abruptly as he faces his reality.

“It’s over.”

Before Draco can say the same words, tell the client to get the rest of his money and just leave, the bloke speaks. He’s about to ask what’s over when he sees a face reflected in the glass. Shaggy hair and spectacles falling down a familiar nose. He stiffens, his body flushing with shame and anger and lust as he stares at the reflection that surely can’t be there.

“It ended last month. Took that long to find you, Malfoy.”

“Why?” One question that says so much. Why was Potter here? Why had he been sought out? Why had Potter done it? Draco refuses to look away from the reflection as he remembers hesitant touches and chapped lips before it became a flurry of movement. Passion. That’s what’s different, he realizes with surprise.

“I don’t know,” Potter admits softly. “We should---we should go now. You need away from this place and your mum will want to see you. She saved Ron, you know, and I promised her I’d bring you back to her. Right. Get your stuff together so I can take you to her.”

“My mum is alive?” Draco whispers as he closes his eyes and shudders. “I thought---I was certain she must be dead. Fuck, she saved a _Weasley_? What about Snape?”

“He’s dead,” Potter tells him. Draco flinches and sighs as he runs his fingers through his still wet hair. He’d known that, of course, but it still hurts.

“It’s really over?” he asks as he opens his eyes and turns to face Potter. “You won’t tell---I don’t want my mum to know about this, about what I‘ve been doing.”

Potter meets his gaze and nods once. “I won’t tell anyone, Malfoy. It’s your business, after all. Seems everyone does what they need to to survive.” He looks away and says, “About what happened here---”

“Forget it,” Draco says firmly as he leans down and picks up the wet towel. He wipes his cock off and ignores Potter as he pulls on a discarded pair of shorts and then trousers.

Draco freezes when he feels fingers trace one of his scars and closes his eyes, wondering if maybe it isn’t so bad to believe once in awhile when he hears a voice barely above a whisper say, “What if I don‘t want to forget it?”  



End file.
